


the place is immaterial

by orphan_account



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Divorced Joseph and Mary Christiansen, M/M, Past Infidelity, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27275317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Meet me at sunrise, or sunset, or the new moon - the place is immaterial." - Emily DickinsonAfter all the mistakes you made, the only thing left to do is atone for them.
Relationships: Joseph Christiansen/Dadsona, Joseph Christiansen/Reader
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post-canon. I wanted to explore the Christiansens in depth; I don't think of either Mary or Joseph as the villain of the story. Both had their flaws and made bad decisions, and while I appreciated and understood the ending of Joseph's route, I certainly didn't like it. I doubt that things really would've turned out well between Joseph and Mary—staying together for children pretty much never works out. I do, however, find them both intensely interesting people and wanted to develop both their flaws and virtues in all their gore and glory. Joseph/Reader is the endgame relationship.
> 
> The second chapter gets explicit pretty much from the get-go. It is entirely without plot and pertains nothing to the reconciliation, so avoid that if you so choose. Or read only that—whatever floats your boat.

It’s months later that finally you admit to yourself that you had as much a hand in it as Joseph did. And you knew it, going in—but there was something so familiar about him, about the loneliness you could see behind his sweetness, half as much a reflection of yours as it was his. You took almost no pains to hide the draw of your eyes to his mouth, pink and soft and smiling; you did nothing to deflect his flirtations, sometimes clumsy, sometimes as easy as breathing. And that cool summer night on his yacht—you can’t forget how the air had smelled of brine, how the wine you shared clung to his breath, how it tasted as you kissed it from his mouth. If you were a better person, you would’ve hid it. But you weren’t. You were careless. You wanted to get caught.

After it all, Mary still found it in her heart to let you make amends as best as you could. Things could never be right between you and her, not after the things you and Joseph did, but you could try. These days, you and her were polite. It was the best you could ask for. It was within the year that things really ended between Joseph and her. You pretended not to notice, and tried very hard not to care.

July of the new year came in hot and humid, the days stretched longer than you ever remembered them being. Amanda stayed at college, promising to come home for a visit before the new semester. You spent most evenings alone on the pier, vanilla soft-serve dripping between your fingers, nose and cheeks freckled and permanently blushed with sunburn. You woke up early, most days, watching the sky over the harbor go pink and peach with thin dawn light. Loneliness felt better, this way, when it was something familiar to lose yourself to. 

Joseph spent most days on his boat that summer, seeing you in every stranger’s face. Everything was an echo of you—even the sea spoiled by the memory of your skin, warm with sunshine and sticky with saltwater, pressed up against him and  _ wanting.  _ Not only wanting, but wanting  _ him _ and nobody else. Loneliness was worse this way, an endless ache under his ribs like atonement he was yet to make. That night haunted Joseph worse than any sin of his past; every other flaw of his long ago forgiven by the grace of his God, but he couldn’t even regret the things he did with you enough to strike them from his soul.

_ “I didn’t know how lonely I was until I knew you,” you had said that night, hesitantly. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”  _

_ “It’s not,” he had replied, achingly earnest. He had laughed, though he wanted to hide his face so you couldn’t see how shiny his eyes had gone, his blond lashes darkened and wet. “It isn’t. I… I never really knew what it was like to feel wanted, before, not really. You make me feel wanted.” _

It came to a head in August, the soft liquid heat of July departing for scorching temperatures. Blue jeans were exchanged for board shorts rolled up high, enough to expose the soft paleness of your thighs; your button-downs were worn halfway open at the front or not worn at all. You had done valiantly in your attempt to not see Joseph at all, and for your efforts you had been granted relief in the form of Amanda coming home to spend a few weeks with you before the fall term—and  _ God,  _ how you had missed her. You never thought you’d be the kind of empty nester to spend days wallowing in your own boredom and misery, but here you were. While you would’ve gladly spent every waking hour pestering her to play catch and hang out, she finally begged off a weekend to go see her old high school friends and of course you let her go. Not that she needed permission—she’d always be your kid, but she was grown now.

On Saturday you spent the evening on the beach, finding a rocky outcropping to situate yourself on, so close to the water you could feel the salt spray against your bare ankles. A throat clearing behind you made you startle.

“Calm down,” said Mary, her strawberry-blonde hair gone a blinding gold from the setting sun. “It’s just me.”

“Hi, Mary,” you replied dumbly. What was she doing here? Was she here to yell at you? I mean, you definitely deserved it, but this was kind of a weird time and place for something so long overdue. She rolled her eyes.

“Seriously, chill. Can I sit?” Expectedly, she didn’t wait for a response, claiming a spot to your left. The two of you sat in silence, watching the sun dip lower and lower into the sky. The stars were beginning to peek through that wine-dark curtain of night. You could see Cassiopeia ever so faintly. At least, you thought that was Cassiopeia. You were never really good with constellations.

“This is a good spot,” she said, finally.

You laughed, but your heart wasn’t really in it. “That’s not what you’re here to talk about, is it?”

Mary snorted. “Obviously not, but sue me for trying to keep it light.” A sigh, and then— “Look. I hate you, okay? You were a fucking homewrecker, even though the home was pretty wrecked to begin with. You get that, right?”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah,” you replied, softly. “Yeah, I get that. And I’m sorry, Mary, I really am—”

“Stop apologizing,” Mary replied, cutting you off. As bold as she sounded, she was resolutely looking down at her hands, which were picking at the rough surface of the rocks. “Stop. I get it. It’s just—ugh. Okay. My parents always wanted me to marry someone  _ nice. _ Clean-cut, all-American. Someone who said grace and played baseball and considered crew-cut to be the only acceptable male hairstyle.”

You nodded politely, having no idea where this was going.

“Just bear with me,” she said, obviously picking up on it. “Anyway. So when Joseph and I started dating, it was kind of a big fuck-you to them and their stupid upper-class East Coast WASP attitudes. I mean—he told you he didn’t used to be so… uptight, right?” You nodded, and she continued. “So then, one day, I get pregnant. We were just kids, y’know. We were fucking stupid and careless and invincible. I didn’t want to keep it, not really, but back in those days if you fucked up you kind of just had to lie in the bed you made. We had to make it work; we got married, tried to clean up our acts. I gave up everything, and Joseph did, too. But he took to it… way better than me, I guess. But I hated that. I hated that I’d ended up with that fucking perfect prep-school princess of a guy that my parents always wanted me to. I loved him, obviously. I still do. He’s still  _ Joseph _ . Just a different one I thought he’d end up being.” Mary stopped, blinking fast. You pretended not to see. She sniffed, and threw a pebble into the water beneath.

“I wasn’t ever cut out for suburbia,” she said. “I wanted my life back. I wanted freedom again. So, y’know, cue the flirting and drinking and shit. I thought I was harmless. I didn’t know how shitty it was to Joseph.”

You glanced over at her. Her nose was pink, and her eyes were kind of puffy. “So… if you know that now… why didn’t it work out?” 

“I love Joseph. I always will. And since—since  _ you _ , I know how to love him in a way he understands, in a way that works for us. But… sometimes love isn’t enough, y’know? And I can’t… ever love  _ this _ . Domestic life was never my style. And I love the kids, too, I really do—but Joseph is the one who’s really their  _ dad _ . I’m just the mother of his children.” She paused, then turned to look at you, slender hand on your knee. It was cool, and maybe a little sweaty. “What I really came here to say is that what you did to me was really shitty. But I don’t think you’re a shitty person. And the choices Joseph made were… in bad judgement, and rushed, and fucked up, but he’s not an evil person, either. And… and I did a lot of cruel shit to him, but I don’t… think I’m bad.”

“You’re not bad, Mary,” you said immediately, and she gave you a thin smile. 

“Thanks,” she said. “That’s what my therapist keeps telling me, but it’s nice to get a second opinion.” That startled a laugh out of you, and she grinned. She’s so different, when she’s being honest. You could tell why Joseph fell in love with her.

“I probably wouldn’t have handled this with half as much grace as you,” you admitted. She grinned again.

“Oh, believe me, I definitely am only showing you the best side of me. Shit got  _ real  _ fucked up a whole bunch of times.” We shared a laugh, and she got up, dusting off her pants. “I gotta get going. I moved in with Robert for the time being, and I get the kids on weekends. They were all asleep when I came to find you, but there’s no guaranteeing they haven’t sacrificed him to a pagan god or something. Joseph’s got the house ‘cause he’s normally got the kids, but he’s probably on that boat of his right about now.” Mary gave you a pointed look. “Don’t waste all the shit we went through. You took him from me and he’s your responsibility now.”

You flushed sheepishly and she laughed, the sound swallowed up by the crashing of the sea. There was a lot about her that reminded you of the ocean—Joseph, too, but in different ways. She was steel-gray waves churning dark and frothy with a coming storm, water as unforgiving and powerful as the cold anger of the goddesses of yore—like the wrath of Juno before the Trojan fleets. She carried herself with a pride well-deserved and more than a little intimidating. Joseph was… still blue waters, so clear and deep you could see when the sunlight stopped in its depths. The surface of his sea was warm, but the deeper you sank, the colder and heavier the water got. There was a power there, too, but an unhappy, desperate one. Mary left, and after a minute or two you got up, too.

Joseph was easy to find, now that you were looking. Part of you thought that maybe you just had a preternatural sense for him—even when you were avoiding him, you couldn’t help but see him everywhere, tired but as handsome as ever. His sandy hair was messy, ruffled by the wind. It was warm enough that he’d lost his usual blue cardigan tied around his shoulders; the buttons of his pink polo were open to expose the tops of his collarbones. He was docking his yacht, rope in hand—or something. You didn’t actually know anything about boats. You tried to sneak up on him like Mary did to you, but he spotted you almost immediately. He looked... both hopeful and terrified in equal measure. You gave him a little wave. He waved back hesitantly.

“Hey,” you said, when you finally got to him. Nothing else, just… hey. Real clever.

“It’s  _ you _ ,” he replied. You laughed, and Joseph flushed red, rubbing at the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Don’t sound too excited,” you said in response, sticking your hands in your pockets for the sake of doing something with them. He darkened even more, face hot.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean it like that, I just—I thought you hated me. After… you know. After it all.”

Now was your turn to flush. “I don’t think I could hate you if I tried,” you admitted. “But I’m sorry I tried so hard to make you think I did. I just—I wanted to talk. About us. About everything.” You lapsed into a silence a little awkwardly. God, this was painful. Probably should've just sat there and thought up a script before going out to find him. Joseph looked back down at the rope in his hands and knelt, finishing up tying his knots. You watched. Well, you stared at the back of his close-cropped blond head. He had a beauty mark behind his ear. You had never noticed that before.

When he looked back up, his pink mouth was pinched and his eyes were wet. “I still love you, you know,” he said, valiantly trying to keep his voice even. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just—just. I didn’t know how to do it right. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it at all.”

“No,” you agreed. “Maybe not. But maybe I shouldn’t have made it so easy.”

You tried to gather your thoughts, but then Joseph was cutting into the silence. “Is that all you have to say?” he asked. “Are you here just to… rub it in that you came out the other side unscathed?” He was angry, now, but a wet anger. Mary’s anger never showed that sort of weakness—her tears only ever came with her forgiveness and not her rage—but you could see Joseph’s heart bleeding out in the screwed up tightness of his brow and the tremble of his mouth pressed thin. It was an interesting dichotomy they drew. So often wet anger is the dominion of wives, the last raw nerve of girls in the bodies of women done wrong by time and time again. It’s the kind of anger that betrays how much you care still, how much of your love still clings tight to things you should’ve left behind. 

His jaw clenched and unclenched, and you placed a hand against his cheek without thinking, as if to smooth away the tension. He stiffened, and then his hand came up very slowly to cover yours. It was warm, and sticky with saltwater and sweat. You swiped your thumb over his cheekbone. He leaned in, suddenly looking very tired and very fragile and very small.

“Can’t you tell?” you asked, finally, barely audible over the sound of the sea. “Can’t you tell how much I still love you? I think about you so much it makes me look stupid. I avoided you because I didn’t want to fuck up again and hurt someone—if I tried to be your friend I know I would.”

Joseph shifted his hand to grip your wrist. “So  _ don’t _ ,” he implored, eyes as blue as a clear morning in the countryside. “Don’t try to be my friend. If you love me, then what else is there to it?”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“It never was, but we started this anyway. All the damage is already done.” And then he let go, stepping back. “I don’t want to have to persuade you. As much as you made it too easy for me last time, I made it too easy for you. I don’t want it to be like that again. It’s just—if we can’t be happy now, then haven’t we wasted all the hurting we did?”

You laughed. “Mary said about the same thing.”

“She’s the smartest of all of us. It must be true.”

“Well, then. Where do we go from here? Do we start over?”

Joseph shook his head. “There’s no starting over. We did the things we did.”

“Strange take from a youth minister. What should we do, then, if the last chapter’s done and closed?”

“Turn the page and just keep on going, I suppose. New memories to make, and all that.”

You thought about it, and then nodded. “Okay,” you said, and kissed him, softly. He tasted salty, like the ever-present brine of port air and maybe tears, a little bit. It was both familiar and strange—the only other time you had had him, he’d tasted like red wine. And then he smiled into your mouth, laughing, the force of his joy suddenly very very sweet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets explicit here, folks. Don't read any further if that ain't your thing.

It was late by the time the two of you headed back to the cul-de-sac, the scorching afternoon heat giving way to a comfortable chill—warm enough that you felt comfortable walking home with him, cool enough that Joseph had grabbed you his blue cardigan from the boat. You didn’t  _ need  _ it, but you took it anyway. It smelled like his cologne, notes of sandalwood and ambergris and something else, uniquely his. The two of you walked close, shoulders pressed together, until you bit the bullet and laced your fingers in his. He looked over with a grin, faintly pink in the thin dusk light.

Both you and him had houses to yourselves that night, but you ended up deciding on yours. He was kissing you before the door was even fully closed, hot and slow and licking into your mouth with such a sweet intensity that you could hardly think straight. Still, you have as good as you got, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing him up against you, his body a hard line of heat against your front. It didn’t take long for him to get greedy, rolling his hips up against you in some desperate search for friction. You pressed a hand against the front of his khakis, laughing when he jumped, biting back an involuntary noise.

“Bedroom?” you asked, and Joseph nodded, holding your hand in both of his as you led him through the house like he couldn’t bear to let go. Soon enough, he was straddled over you, bearing you down into the unmade covers. Already he was rolling his hips again, as sinuous as the rock of a ship in calm waters. He rucked up his shirt as you undid the fly of his pants, pulling them off and onto the floor. The pink polo followed quickly enough after.

Joseph looked positively indecent this way, the length of him visible through his boxers, lips kissed red and cheeks flushed with desire. You gave an experimental tug through the fabric of his underwear, grinning when it elicited a choked-off sound, which in turn made him redden further. 

“Please,” he begged, already halfway incoherent.

“Okay, Joseph, I got you,” you soothed. “Tell me what you need.”

“Anything,” Joseph said, pulling at your clothes and leaving them where they fell, latching his mouth to your collar and sucking a bruise into your skin. “Everything. Everything you have.”

His hands were warm and soft, braced against your chest. You reached up and back, fumbling for a condom and lubricant from the bedside drawer.

“Here,” you said, tossing him the condom. He bit his lip, grabbing your wrist.

“Wait,” he replied, hesitant. “I want...” He turned away, face red.

You raised a brow. “You want… me to do you?” He nodded vigorously. “Are you sure? Have you ever done that before?”

“Well, no,” he started, “But I want my first time trying to be with you. The… concept of virginity is antiquated and I’ve obviously had experience with women so I’m not  _ really _ , but… I’m a religious man. It’s still kind of important, to me. And I trust you.”

You grinned, a little overcome with emotion. “Sure, but we’ve got to slow it down, then. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Joseph replied immediately, sure and trusting. You kissed him in response, rolling him over into the sheets so he was underneath you, legs parted and then wrapped around you on instinct. You slid his boxers off, tossing them onto the floor with the rest of his clothing. As eager as he was, you could tell he was nervous; you rubbed soothing circles in the crease of his thigh. Soon enough he was shifting impatiently, rolling his hips again in an effort to get you to just  _ touch  _ him. You humored him, stroking up his length lightly and teasing the frenulum until he was bucking against your hand. Your hand tightened and tightened again, making his hips stutter from the pleasure bordering on pain. You licked a filthy line up the pale column of his neck, savoring the flavor of clean sweat and the sweetness of the little noises he tried so hard to hold in.  More than anything, you just wanted Joseph to feel good—and feel safe, here alone with you. Your other hand found the tube of lubricant, a sizable amount squeezed out and let warm from the heat of your body. You didn’t know if it was just the August temperatures or the effect of being so near the man you loved or what, but it felt like you were burning up.

After a few minutes, a single slicked finger found his entrance, applying pressure but not yet breaching. You could feel him clenching, his body tensing in response to the unfamiliar pressure—which was exactly the opposite of what you were looking for. Instead of pushing in, then, you pressed firmly up against his perineum, grinning when he cursed and fisted his hands in the sheets.

“Oh, fuck, what was  _ that?”  _ Joseph panted out, very nearly stumbling over the question. You let him thrust into the tight circle of your fingers, close to enough, but not quite. 

“Have you ever touched yourself here?” you asked, the picture of innocence. “Did you ever finger yourself, thinking of me?”

“Yes, ah, I tried, once or—or twice,” he admitted, cheeks gone a pretty pink once more. “After we had—after the first time.”

You smiled against his skin, one hand still on his cock, edging him towards climax. The other had returned to circling his entrance, spreading lubricant liberally.

“Did you come?”

“No,” he replied, voice low and breathy and wrecked. “No, I—ah, it didn’t feel like—like this does.” You pressed a finger in up to the first knuckle and stilled, letting him adjust to the feeling. He was tight and slick and hot around you—you wondered if this is what it was like to fuck a woman, her thighs soft and parted for you, the wet slide of it as easy as anything. 

“I like that,” you replied to him, twisting the hand on his cock as if for emphasis and then trying to commit to memory the subsequent gasp and moan. Joseph had dug his blunt fingernails into the meat of your thigh, his own trembling around you. “I want to be the only to make you feel like this. I missed you so much, Joseph. You looked so pretty, that day on the yacht. I couldn’t help but remember how you tasted.” You pressed your finger in all the way, then, thrusting shallowly, trying to find his prostate. 

Joseph bucked suddenly, thighs tightening around you, letting you know you had succeeded. “Please,” he begged, looping his arms around your neck, hips rocking back and forth—there was no escaping the sensation, one hand teasing his tip and the other teasing inside of him. “I want to feel you already. I—fuck, I  _ need  _ to feel you.”

“Prove it to me. Tell me how bad you want it.”

Joseph groaned—it was nearly a whine, as desperate as it was. It was almost humiliating, but he was still agreeing, never more agreeable than now. “Fuck,” he said. “I couldn’t stop thinking of you since that day—your—your fucking mouth, the way you, ah, felt—felt around me. You felt so— _ fucking  _ good, ah,  _ fuck _ , I missed you so bad, too, honey, I want you so bad.” He was talking absolute shit, a stream of filthy babbling and not much more. It was kind of hot, to be honest, watching him lose all pretense of propriety. All of a sudden, all you could think of was how hard you were, cock twitching against your stomach, head flushed an angry red. Your hand left his cock to press against your own, the heel of it applying just enough pressure to offer some relief. With your other hand, you pressed a second finger into him, watching his face for any pain. He only panted, thighs clenching and unclenching as if he couldn’t decide whether to spread his legs to the pleasure or shy away from its intensity.

“Take a deep breath,” you ordered, other hand coming back to settle heavy on his thigh. He obliged without complaint, a hitching breath stuttering through him. “Again,” you said, unsatisfied. He complied, smoother, this time, and you could feel the tension ease from him—could see it in his face and feel it around your fingers. You supposed it was half your fault, winding him up so much; it was his first time, and you probably should’ve been going twice as slow as you were. Though he hadn’t complained, you pressed a kiss to his jaw as if in apology. 

The third finger went in as easy as anything, Joseph lying back as you stretched him open, white-gold hair splayed out like a halo against the sheets. You sucked a ring of wine-dark bruises around his neck, just low enough to be covered by his polo if he wore it buttoned up. You wondered if anybody would notice the change in his normal style—or maybe he wouldn’t care; maybe he’d leave the buttons undone as he always did and let everyone see the evidence of your touch, of the claim you staked.

“You ready, sweetheart?” you asked finally, withdrawing your fingers gently and using the excess lubricant to slick the length of your cock. “Tell me if you want me to slow down.”

“If you don’t go faster I may just go and find a post to sit on and finish the job myself,” he sniped back. You laughed and pressed a chaste kiss to the soft inside of his knee. Slowly, you pressed into him, the hot slick heat of him nearly intoxicating.

“How does it feel?” 

He had a pinched look on his face. “Weird,” he admitted. “Not like before.”

You huffed a laugh. “It gets better, I promise. I just have to get you used to it.” You didn’t dare start moving yet, and instead reached between your bodies to tug Joseph’s cock back to full hardness. Soon enough he was rocking his hips unconsciously, hot and tight around you—and  _ fuck  _ if that didn’t make you positively  _ ache _ . You gave a few experimental, shallow thrusts. So far, he seemed pretty on-board with the goings-on and so you picked up speed, angling your hips to try to find his sweet spot.

After a minute or so of getting nowhere, you changed position, bracing yourself over him and pushing back a leg almost to his chest. He gasped, eyes widening and then fluttering closed.

“Fuck, right there,” he stuttered out, hands flying up to grab at your shoulders. “Oh, fuck, right there. Don’t stop.”

You picked up speed in lieu of a response, the obscene sounds of skin on skin filling the bedroom. You’re nailing his prostate on nearly every thrust, based on Joseph’s face. It didn’t take long for him to let out a choked-off noise, coming white ropes of jism up the plane of his stomach and the gentle swell of his pectorals, skin pebbled with goosebumps and thighs trembling around you. You fucked him through it best you could with his inner walls fluttering and clenching all around your length, reaching down with a free hand to work his cock even as it became almost too sensitive to bear. Joseph writhed, hands coming up to grip your biceps hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck, stop,” he panted. “I’m—it’s too much, I can’t take it.” Ever merciful, you obliged, letting his spent cock drop against his stomach. He looked so pretty like this, pink lips and cheeks and cockhead, eyes bluer than the sky after a storm. His hair was an absolute mess and he was breathing heavily, chest heaving and shining with a thin layer of perspiration. The sight of him so completely undone was enough to have your hips stuttering, spilling your spend deep inside of him. He made a noise deep in his chest at the sensation, the warmth of it and the intimacy.

You were nearly soft by the time you finally pulled out, immediately collapsing next to Joseph and cuddling close. With the last few functional brain cells you had left, you fumbled for any old random article of hastily discarded clothing and mopped Joseph's abdomen clean. He slung an arm over your waist, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, and you pressed a kiss to the top of his head. His hair smelled nice, you noted. Like mint. You could feel his returning grin against your skin. The moon hung high up in the sky and every so often, you could hear the rustle of a breeze blowing through leaves and the call of a bullfrog. Joseph tangled his legs in yours, very quickly falling asleep. You stared up at the ceiling, stupid grin on your face, and everything was perfect.


End file.
